Looking out my Backdoor: Wait Until We Get Back

Two of my friends are touring Italy.

Their husbands did not want to go.

The women said, “That’s okay. We will go ourselves.

You keep the home fires burning.”

When we get back, we will have so much

To tell you. One friend, the one from Washington,

Sends photos, photos of famous palaces, pictures

Of hotel rooms, of food, of streets, of stores.

Now and then we see a picture of each of them,

Usually sitting at a plate of food, looking glad.

Or looking exhausted. Or, one with my friend from Minnesota,

Who looks like she is thinking, “This is it? This is all?”

When they get back, they say, “Oh, it was marvelous.

We saw so much. Would you like more coffee? This weather

Is ruinous. I can’t believe the garden looks so — ragged.”

They don’t tell us about the other people on the tour. No

Mention is made of lumpy beds, welcome nonetheless,

At the end of a day tromping through museums, churches,

Up streets, down streets. “Hurry, hurry, we’ve so much to show you.”

We don’t hear about the strange food, only praise of

Fish and chips in Sorrento. They don’t mention meals

Of bread and coffee because the plate in front of them,

“Well, we couldn’t eat it, could we?” They don’t talk about

Sore feet at day’s end, about walking through innumerable

Cathedrals, all breathtakingly beautiful, in and out in ten minutes

Until each mushed together into one, like mashed potatoes. We

Don’t hear about the group being shuffled through jewelry store

After jewelry store, where eyes glaze over, where all is expensive,

And like the cathedrals, it is all the same. They don’t tell us,

Our friends, about the handsome young men who approach them,

Offering a private tour because all American women on tour are rich,

And who can blame them for wanting to help themselves. No mention

Is made of street vendors, in their faces, so pushy, unrelenting, loud.

Nobody ever tells us about the smells. Photos don’t have sound.

They don’t talk about their companions in the tour group,

The giggly matron who dresses like she is fifteen,

Or the man who drinks too much, always laughing,

With eyes near tears, or the couple who don’t speak,

Don’t look at each other, don’t touch. Or the kind woman

Who seems to know how to put everyone at ease. Or the pair

At the back of the bus, content within themselves.

“We have so much to tell you.” But they don’t.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].